


Blow Up

by Rovardotter



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: And Lots of Empty Promises, Angry Sex, Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, Delusions, First Time, Hand Jobs, Iron Islands Angst, M/M, Mad Dreams, Pre-Canon, Rutting, Scary Tales, Seduction, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-01-25 19:25:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1659713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rovardotter/pseuds/Rovardotter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lord Stark had never taken him on rides to the seaside, as if afraid the salty winds would needlessly remind Theon of his home. The only sea his warden should've kept hidden was the burning blue of his son's eyes.</p><p>[1] Theon tells Robb a bedtime story.<br/>[2] Robb and Theon play house.<br/>[3] Theon would rather take freedom than smoking arenas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. L'Avventura

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Dedicated to the loveliest girl of them all, [Heloisa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Heloisa/pseuds/Heloisa). Happy birthday, my dear, and may your year be filled with much Throbb, smut and joy. Love you!
> 
> So many thanks that I can't even to [SharpestKnife](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestKnife/pseuds/SharpestKnife) for his wonderful beta. Let's raise a cup to our mutual distrust of decent!Theon <3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Theon tells Robb a bedtime story.

Robb laughed a lot.

It was never malicious, never mocking. His lips curled, his blue eyes lit up, as if he'd just glimpsed the world for the first time and found it to be beautiful. Mayhaps that was why Theon liked him so, liked him more than he should have, all things considered. But now was hardly the time for hesitation or second thoughts. Not when he sat on the floor with his back against the stone wall, the little Stark securely nudged between his knees, his cheeks flushed red with all that wine Theon had fed to him.

"I should probably go," Robb said.

"Should you?" Theon arched a brow, because his actions spoke quite differently; the boy stretched his legs, sank his head deeper into the nook of Theon's shoulder.

"My lady mother says," Robb coughed, then lazily picked up his words. "My lady mother says I should not be – sharing beds. You know."

Theon snorted, as though the very idea was ridiculous, even while his arms moved from his sides to loosely drape around Robb. _That ought to put the boy at ease_ , he thought, and sure enough, Robb chuckled and nestled closer to his chest. Theon could almost envision her, haughty Lady Stark with her perpetual frown, arms crossed sternly over her chest, explaining the rules of lordly conduct to her eldest son ( _Honour, duty, no siblings in bed._ )

Robb was treading over a misted boundary; he was no longer a young boy, but not yet a man grown. Theon had only just begun to notice it: Robb's broadening chest, a new thickness to his voice, and yet, still as happy and trusting as a small child. That was when his new plans ( _disgraceful plans_ ) had started to set sail, and he'd be loath to admit it, but mayhaps this incongruity was precisely what made him find the little Stark so appealing. Appealing enough, as it happens, to have him here in his bedchamber at this late hour, to put him in his cups, then between his knees. And to be planning to do much, much more.

"Shouldn't be sharing beds, well," Theon said. "And what do you think?"

"Uh." The wine had made Robb slower. He pondered over the question much longer than necessary, and his deliberation set Theon astir. _Soon_ , _soon enough, he's almost there_. He knew he should feel ashamed for his intentions, but he just wanted to, wanted so badly _–_ and he wasn't going to hurt the boy _. It'll be nice, he'll like that. I'll be gentle_. "I think she meant Snow," Robb finally said. "She doesn't like – you know. Besides, she's not here, is she?"

"Quite so," Theon said.

He couldn't suppress a chortle himself. It always made him peculiarly giddy when Robb called his insufferable half-brother by his surname – _his bastard name_ – but never did the same with Theon. And to feel giddy by a fourteen year-old's favours, well, it was almost as stupid as craving to press his lips to that boy's skin, to find out if it was really as soft as it seemed, to discover just what the little Stark looked like when he drowned in pleasure. Appalling thoughts, all of those, but Theon was past denying at this point, past caring, even. _It's not that bad, honestly. Someone has to show him, and who better than me?_

He didn't know what had made him decide this was the time to act. It could've been a certain gleam in Robb's eyes, or how the boy responded so willingly when he'd pulled him to lean against his chest. It could've been the simple fact that he could bear to fight it no more. He knew exactly when it'd happened, though: Robb'd been merrily chattering ( _wasn't really listening, truth be told_ ), shifted between his legs to reach the wine cup on the nightstand. He then gently brushed against Theon's crotch ( _must've already been half-hard_ ), let out a sharp breath, dropped back, wine in hand, and kept on talking. And that was it. Theon's mind was set, he just wanted, so, so badly – _undress him, get him on the bed, he'll love that, I'll have to cover his mouth to keep him quiet_ – and a wave of guilt threatened to sink his every action. Because while Robb would undoubtedly grow as tall and strong as his lord father, tonight he was a laughing boy with his head a whirlwind of too much liquor, a boy who'd never done any of this before, and had no idea just what Theon meant to teach him.

"Tell me something," said Robb.

"What?"

"Just." Robb sipped the last drops from his cup. "Something."

"As you will, lad," Theon said. He smoothly moved his hand to rest over Robb's shoulder, fingers splayed over his grey tunic. "Ever told you about my uncle Euron?"

"The one they call Crow's Eye?" Robb placed the empty cup on the stone floor; he didn't seem to mind the hand, or the fingers gently running over the wool. _Good lad. It'll be nice, you'll see._

"Right," Theon said. "That's because he wears a patch over his left eye."

"Did he lose it in battle?"

"Hells, I'm not sure if he lost an eye at all." Theon anchored a finger under the hem of the boy's tunic, absently toying with it while forming his tale. "He probably just likes the look of it." He'd never cared to talk about his ( _true_ ) family, or about the Iron Islands for that matter. Those lost memories seemed so faded, carried an almost ethereal quality, as though they'd happened to someone else, or never at all. Robb was oddly captivated by them, however, and that was the main goal. _Keep him interested, keep him distracted. By the time he notices, he'll be too far gone_. "Makes him look fierce. That, and his blue lips, from all the shade-of-the-evening he drinks. You know what that is?"

"Uh." Robb frowned. "No."

"That's a wizards' drink, from Qarth. My uncle found a cask while sailing to the Jade Sea. More precious than gold, he said. It gives the wizards their powers, he claimed it'd given him – well, unearthly power." Robb's head now lulled heavily against his shoulder, and Theon wondered if that'd be the opportune time to steer the course of his fingers from the boy's tunic to his neck.

He was an expert in seduction – _of course_. He knew how to get the most hardened whore in Winter Town to lower her guard; how to cajole the tavern wenches until they were generous with their bodies; how to loosen the castle's scullery maids with sweet words and embraces so they dropped to their knees. Theon had also tried other boys in the past, when he was too drunk to care ( _You don't look a gift horse in the mouth when it sucks your cock_.) But Robb, even while dipping into wine and tales with glossy eyes and tousled curls, was still a highborn boy, a little lord, a _friend_ , or as close as Theon had ever arrived to having one. The thought of how different it'd be to make him yield to his advances was both thrilling and terrifying.

"And does he?" Robb asked. "Have unearthly powers?"

"Some swear he does," Theon said. "That he controls the actions of animals, hells, even of men. Gets inside their skin, like those wargs of your Old Nan's tales." And it must've been the time, the perfect time, because Theon could wait no longer. He freed his fingers, and slowly, so very slowly, moved them from the tunic's hem to Robb's shoulder, over the jut of his collarbone, up the soft skin of his neck, coming to rest under his earlobe. "He could make you do whatever he wanted you to, and you'd be helpless to stop him." Robb softly sighed, but made no other sound. This encouraged Theon to slide his fingers down again. _Just so. Let me, gods, Robb, let me_. "He's made men kneel and serve him. He's made women lie and spread their legs before him. Look Euron in the eye, his right blue eye, and you'd be his slave until the Long Night comes again. His ship is called _Silence_. Do you know why?"

Robb shook his head, then chanced a guess: "Because no man dares disobey him?"

"Close, but not quite." His hand now picked up its pace, circled the boy's neck, fluttered under his chin, feeling soft wisps of adolescent beard. "His crew is made of mutes. He cut off their tongues, see, with his own dagger. While they were bound and screaming their last on this earth." Robb shivered in his arms, and Theon could not say if it was for the tale, or because his fingers now slowly unlaced the ties of his tunic.

"That's monstrous." Robb swallowed. "Even for an Ironborn."

"No worse than you northerners flaying men alive." Theon's voice was harsher than he'd intended. After all, he _had_ wanted to frighten the boy with all those dark images, just a little bit, wanted to avert his attention from how his fingers were now gliding beneath the half-undone laces. And if that was so, there was no reason for Robb's judgement to feel like a slap in his face.

"It doesn't happen anymore," Robb sombrely stated. "My lord father would have never allowed such crimes to go unpunished."

 _Oh, he wouldn't_. The sudden bitter taste in his mouth startled him. _Your honourable lord father punishes all transgressors, doesn't he?_ Giving up the slow advance of his fingers, he sharply thrust his hand under Robb's tunic. _Even boys. Even small boys_. His palm pushed on this boy's chest, and his thumb found his nipple, rubbed over it. Robb stilled; his lips were parted, wobbling, his eyes locked on Theon's, wide and clear blue. _You get it now, Stark, don't you?_ And Theon carried on: "My lord father did not let him go unpunished, either. I haven't told you what happened next."

Robb's voice was but a whisper. "What."

"Just before I was sent here." _A captive, a hostage_. He pinched the boy's nipple, not hard enough to hurt him. He'd never wished to hurt him, gods, he just wanted, so badly – and he touched his lips to his shoulder; Robb was flushed, fiery warm, tasted sweet as wine. "Euron was exiled from the Isles. No one should've known the reason for it, see, but I heard my lord father. He thought I was too young to understand." _Or just invisible. Invisible by the bridges of Pyke, by the towers of Winterfell. What's the difference, really._ He felt the body between his knees tremble, the nipple between his fingers harden. His tongue floated over the line his hand had earlier been stroking, until his mouth stood just behind the boy's ear, his breath sifting through the reddish curls. "Euron thought he could pillage all he wanted. So he did. With my other uncle's salt wife. Do you know what a salt wife is?"

"I – I've heard."

"He raped her. Filled her with his seed." And he hadn't meant to, had never intended this to be cruel, he just wanted, fuck, just wanted to make the boy feel good. But all Robb had to do was mention his father, and there _._ In retrospect, a tale of the Iron Islands had been an unusually poor choice. The sea-washed memories gave rise to the resentment buried within him, to a tide of sentiments he was used to drowning with smirks and japes. The next words he bitterly murmured in the little Stark's ear: "That's what Ironborn do, Robb. We plunder. We take what we want."

"Theon." Robb moved aside to face him; his brows were furrowed, the expression on his face grave, almost reminiscent of his lady mother. _That's when he tells me to stop_ , Theon thought, _stop me, gods, please_ , and he really couldn't help himself anymore. He'd steered it wrong, botched it completely. The only way he'd ever learnt to proceed was to sink it all to the bottom of the sea. His fingers pinched the boy's nipple again, harder this time, and his other hand moved between his legs, felt for the laces of his breeches.

"I could take you right now, Robb," he whispered. Such cruel words, he'd never wanted that. He'd wanted it to be nice for the boy, wanted to wrench desperate moans from his sweetly laughing mouth, to watch him plummet into waves of bliss. _But when have I ever got what I wanted_ _?_ "I could take you, and you'd be helpless to stop me."

"No," Robb quietly said. "You wouldn't."

"No?" He snorted derisively, and this time with no intention to put the boy at ease. His fingers tugged hard on the ties of the breeches, but he couldn't make himself lower them just yet to fondle Robb's cock. There was a line there, he knew, a line more tangible than intimidating tales and words, and if he breached it, there would be no turning back. He would truly be his father's son. "And why's that, Robb?"

"Because you're not like them. You're a good person." Robb's eyes were a serious, candid blue. "And besides," he added softly and placed his hand over Theon's, between his legs. "You wouldn't have to _take_."

In the silence which fell on the bedchamber, the crackle of the hearth seemed intolerably loud, almost too much to bear. The boy's fingers tightened with a slight tremor around his hand, nudged it to rest on his cock; he was hard, warm even through the wool of his breeches. And that was it, the barrier had been wordlessly crossed, and Theon could hardly find his breath until Robb spoke again.

"What –" His teeth bit over his lower lip, a childhood habit which still persisted despite all of his lady mother's scolds. "Theon, what did you want to do to me?"

And Theon might have sunk it all under the surf, wished to see the only good thing he'd ever had shatter and break, but this boy – _this sweet laughing boy_ – carefully picked it up again, and mayhaps this was why Theon liked him so.

"Touch you," he said, past denying, past caring. "Have you."

"Fuck me?"

"Yes." Theon's hand moved farther down, his fingers slipping through the loosened ties, slowly coiling around the boy's hardness. "Yes."

"How?"

"Only one way it goes, lad." He'd meant to sneer, chortle at that naive question, but the sound escaping his mouth was a strained huff. Because _how?_ had endless answers. First time with Robb on his back, easy and gentle, kissing his parted lips as he moans in initial pain, then unimagined pleasure. Second time with Robb on his knees, opening up his little red mouth, his eyes trembling shut as Theon feeds him his cock. And third time – countless times: push him up against the wall, overpower him on the floor, grab his auburn curls in the stables, when all the Starks are looking elsewhere. Mayhaps it hadn't been such a silly question after all.

Robb just laughed softly, asked again: "But how?"

"On the bed," Theon murmured. "Have you on your back. Wanted to kiss you and touch you until you agreed. Wanted to –" And his fingers found a steady, sure pace around the boy's cock, so warm, silkily soft, just the way he'd imagined it. But how Robb's hand was still weighing down on his, how the boy delved his teeth into his own lips, swallowing on his soft whimpers, and how his eyes were a sea of serene blue – it was something Theon had never dared imagine. "Wanted to show you how nice it feels."

"Show me," said Robb.

Theon scarcely needed more encouragement. He rose up on his legs, yanking Robb after him, his right hand clenching his chest, the other one still curled around his cock. He led the boy to the bed, but couldn't find the patience to climb onto it. Instead he pushed him to rest stomach down by the edge of the bed, his legs still on the floor – _but it's wrong, should be able to kiss him, but don't care, don't care anymore_. He moved his right hand to pull down the boy's breeches, then his smallclothes, which gave away so easily. He lowered himself over Robb's back, hand squeezing harder on his cock.

"Thought," Robb mumbled, his head buried into the furs on the bed. "On my back."

"Later," Theon rasped and freed his own cock swiftly. He was used to that, quick humps in the kitchens or behind the glass gardens, but never quite like that, never with a boy, never with his own warden's little heir. _It's so wrong, have to prepare him first. Can't take him like that. But no need to take, he'll give, gods, he'll give_. Robb squirmed underneath him, and he clamped his right hand over the boy's hip in an almost bruising force to keep him in place. "Later, later, Robb," he kept on promising as he rubbed his cock over the boy's skin.

"Later." Robb buckled under him, thrusting himself into Theon's fingers. "Tell me what comes later."

"I'll fuck you, gods be good, I will." He used his hand to part the boy's ass cheeks, pushed his cock to nestle between them. "You'll be so fucking tight. You've never been fucked before."

"No," Robb moaned softly, shook his head. "You'll be the first."

"Gods, I'll fuck you good. Going to shove my cock right into your ass." He brushed faster on his skin. "I'll shove it deep. You'll feel all of me, every inch."

"That'll hurt."

"It won't, I swear," Theon grunted, pressed the head of his cock against the boy's entrance. "I'll make it nice for you, I'll prepare you."

"How?"

"Going to play with you, loosen you up. You'll love it. Gods, I'll make you scream."

"Tell me." Robb lifted himself from the furs; his eyes were impossibly close, his little mouth slack, loose in ragged pants. "What I'll scream."

"For more, more." He rutted into him in a firm, punishing speed. "Harder, faster, and me, and my name." His hand seized the wool of the boy's tunic, leashed him back and forth against his cock. "You'll scream my name."

"You'll have to keep me quiet."

"Hells, I'll gag your fucking mouth, I'll hold you down."

Robb almost hissed at that. "Then? Tell me what then."

"Going to fuck you harder, you won't be able to move, to scream anymore." Theon bore down on him with all his weight, all his possible force. "Won't think of anything but my cock deep in your ass." His lips latched on the boy's shoulder, bruising into the soft skin as hard as he could. "Gods, Robb, I'll fuck you good."

And he knew he should feel ashamed for how those empty promises and the intoxicating warmth of skin were enough to send him over. Or it might have been Robb's wide blue eyes, drinking in his every dirty word. He gave a deep, throaty moan and spent himself, tightly squeezed against Robb's asshole. Shameful, no doubt, but he was past caring, and mayhaps so was the boy, because he shuddered and convulsed under his weight, under the seed trickling over his ass, down his legs, until he too spilled into Theon's hand.

Theon released the tunic and turned to his side, panting hard, the bedchamber's arched stone ceiling spinning around him. He shut his eyes, still sinking under the sprays of his conjured words and images, and those trusting bright eyes. He felt the boy edging closer; their sweaty brows pressed together, then warm lips fleetingly touched his mouth.

"Later, huh?" Robb murmured, let out a laugh.

With any other person – a whore, a wench – it would have been humiliating, unthinkably humiliating, to be simply laughed at like that. But this was different. Robb's laughter was never malicious, never mocking. And when he said 'later', that was all he meant. _Later_. They would have nights upon nights to make good on his promises.

"Later," Theon groaned.

He lazily wrapped his arm around Robb, pulled him closer against his chest, and joined their lips again. For too long he'd wished for warmth in this lonely northern castle, that place where he'd never truly belong, and while their mouths slowly brushed together, as long as they were breathing softly into each other in that languid afterglow of complete release, he could almost delude himself into thinking he still had a chance. Theon heard himself laughing, laughing loudly, easy and free, right along with Robb.

He embraced the boy tighter, a carnal replacement for words he couldn't say, kissed him until their skin was sore and bruised, until they floated to sleep, lying huddled under his furs on a once again shared bed. And he'd kiss him for as long as he'd be able to, Theon realised just before his eyes closed. Because this boy thought he was not like them. This laughing boy thought he was a good person.

Because Robb had no idea who Theon really was.


	2. La Notte

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Robb and Theon play house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many thanks to [SharpestKnife](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestKnife/pseuds/SharpestKnife) for being a splendid beta and most importantly a wonderful person. Ti amo <3

Robb laughed little nowadays.

His stance was rigid, wooden; his eyes drifted, as if the glare of the world was too much to bear. He'd just returned to the castle, still wore his riding clothes and his sword in a scabbard tied around his waist. Theon had been waiting for that, waiting all day for the boy lord to arrive into his bedchamber pleading, seeking comfort in his arms, as he had every night. But now he found himself irritated by Robb's dull eyes, the tired lines of his face, and most of all, by the little whelp clutching tightly to his legs.

"He won't leave," Robb said.

The babe's dirtied face contorted, his lips trembled, tears still streamed down his muddy cheeks. He let out a deep sob, and proceeded to unceremoniously wipe his runny nose on Robb's breeches.

"I can see that." Theon crept closer behind him, deeply inhaling his smell of leather and horses, with still ( _despite it all_ ) a faint trace so fresh, so essentially _Robb_ , that made his skin prickle. He hooked his arm around his waist, pulled him nearer against his hips so Robb could feel just how hard he already was, but the boy lord only stiffened.

"Not now," he mumbled.

"Been long enough." Theon kissed him under his curls, his warm breath gathered on the soft skin behind his ear.

"Theon." Robb turned his head, shot him a warning look. "My brother."

Because, of course, there was still the little runt by their feet, and whichever plans Theon had for Robb (he had a great many, and more with each passing, colder day) would have to wait a while longer. The necessity of dealing with the crying whelp was also becoming a nightly occurrence, quite like his brother's desperate moans, only not half as enjoyable. That the babe bore Theon no love didn't help matters. In all truth, Robb would've been wiser to handle this by himself, but while he bravely carried the burden of his new duties, he broke apart at those howls ( _I was raised to be a lord_ , he'd told Theon. _Not a mother. It isn't me he needs_.) He'd come to Theon plainly because he had no one else to turn to, not anymore.

"Just put him back in bed." Theon himself knew close to nothing about little children, misliked them even, their snot and soiled clothes, and this new caregiving task was more daunting than horns of war. He groaned, circled the brothers to usher them towards the door, but the babe recoiled and clung harder to Robb with his little fists.

"Not _you_ ," he wailed. "Father. Where's Father?"

"He rode south with the king," Robb said. "You know that, Rickon."

"Your mother?" Theon asked, though he already knew the answer.

"There's still no talking to her," Robb stiffly said. "I've tried to get her to eat, she nearly slapped me." And he added in a small voice: "I don't think she even recognises me."

Theon nodded. Lady Stark, once so meticulously held together, would now spend the entire day seated blankly by little Bran's sickbed, her fingers a mad spin of needlework the significance of which neither of them could begin to guess. He'd taken to accompanying Robb when he made his visits to his lady mother ( _unpleasant affair, gods, but who else has he got?_ ), but he couldn't bring himself to enter that bedchamber; it reeked inside, a pungent scent of loss and lunacy. And so he would stand by the door and play with the dagger he kept by his hip, conjuring up all the things he'd later do to make Robb forget (and other, madder plans, of the Titan of Braavos and white-masted ships) while the boy lord attempted to coax his mother into a coherent response.

"Right, listen to your brother," he sternly told the whelp. "Time for bed now."

"No!" Rickon howled between his sobs. "No bed."

"It's very late," Robb said, crouching until he was level with his brother. "Theon and me, we're tired. We need to sleep, too."

"But I had a dream," the babe whined, rubbed his nose again.

"Did you?" Robb asked gently. He laid his palm on the babe's head, brushing through unruly locks of light auburn hair. "Tell us all about it on the way."

"It was an _animal_ dream." Rickon sounded angry, but he let Robb ( _finally_ ) lead him out to the corridor. "Was a dream that wasn't a dream."

Theon snorted; he hadn't meant it to be loud enough to hear, but the boy lord still glared at him. "Was it now," he told his little brother, his brow furrowed, as they climbed up a flight of stairs to the second floor of the Great Keep, where the children's bedchambers now grew empty with the ghosts of past laugher.

"Animal dreams are never really dreams," Rickon said.

"I didn't know that," Robb said as he opened the door to Rickon's room. "What was it about?"

"I was in bed," the babe said. "And I wasn't."

Theon propped himself against the wall. His fingers found the dagger, started tracing the engraving on the handle. _I'll make him forget, gods, I'll give him what he needs_ , he thought as Robb lifted his little brother and for a moment held him tightly in his arms. _Until his voice's gone, until he's gagging for breath. And later, we'd get away, we truly could._ Rickon threw his tiny hands around Robb, smeared a healthy dose of snot over his tunic, then allowed his brother to lay him in bed as he were, filthy clothes, muddy face and all.

"What happened then?" Robb asked and sat by the bed. He pulled the furs to cover the babe up to his chin, his palm slowly stroking his long knotted curls.

"Can't remember." Rickon yawned. "Bran's still asleep?"

"Afraid so," Robb said; there was a slight tremor to his voice. "I bet he'd wake up soon, then we could all play together." Theon lifted himself off the wall and joined the brothers on the bed. He sat behind Robb, started rubbing his shoulders gently, thumbs drawing circles on his neck. _The whelp wouldn't understand, and even if he does, who would he tell?_ And this time Robb gave in, leant back against Theon's chest.

"Mother too?" Rickon's eyes fluttered, started to close.

"Of course," Robb said. "She'd play with us too."

"No." The babe's voice was barely audible. "In dreams she didn't."

"It's only dreams."

Rickon's lips quivered, his eyes slowly shut. "Never really dreams," he mumbled and the bedchamber fell silent.

Theon planted a kiss on Robb's hair, his hands moved to his back. It reminded him of the very first time he'd had him, a pained boy soothed by his touch, trusting him completely, and Theon had never felt less worthy of that trust. For all his words, he knew it would hurt, _had_ hurt Robb. That was why he had waited for so long. After that night he'd spent himself with a string of empty promises on Robb's skin, the boy would come into his bedchamber at night-time with the sweetest questions requesting the dirtiest deeds.

And gods, Theon wanted to, wanted so badly, but to fuck a whore or a wench was one thing – to fuck the little Stark was something entirely different. And so he'd put it off, night after night, taught Robb enough new things to keep him enticed: how to touch him, how to get on his knees and take his cock into his mouth, how to kiss, lick and swallow. And when he'd finally found the courage, couldn't deny himself any longer, the boy _was_ in pain; his tears welled and his teeth dug into his lips. "Go on," he urged Theon, wiping his eyes. "Doing fine." He put on his brave face, as though he'd just sprained his ankle on a hunting ride. And Theon ( _gods help me, still a reaver, a plunderer_ ) carried on, harder yet, and his last thoughts as he spent his seed inside his warden's firstborn were, _Look at him now, Lord Stark, watch him well. I took your little boy_.

The following times were better, though, and soon he had Robb trembling and moaning, rolling his hips in such a lewd way Theon almost wanted to scold him, remind him that he was still a lordling. And yet it was naught more than a few nights a week, a pleasant distraction after a long day at the training yard. That'd changed, too, after Lord Stark rode south with Robb's sisters, after little Bran's fall and Lady Stark's own descent into insanity, especially after the bastard left for the Wall, which was mayhaps (but Theon misliked dwelling on it) the biggest betrayal in Robb's eyes. The others couldn't help it; they were victims to events beyond their control. But Snow, he chose to leave. _And I hope Robb never, ever forgives him._

Seated in the darkness of Rickon's bedchamber, his fingers curled in the sleeping babe's hair, Robb laid his head back on Theon's shoulder. "Here we are, then," he softly said. "My father's gone. My mother's half mad. My brother's half dead." He sighed. "Doesn't matter. I do what I have to. Right?"

And Theon murmured in his ear: "No."

"What?" Robb narrowed his eyes.

"Not tonight," Theon said. "Tonight you are not the Stark in Winterfell." He wrapped his arms around Robb's neck, held him firmly against him. "Tonight you're just a boy." And with a squeeze on his shoulder, he added: "Understand me?"

Robb was silent for a few moments, then he nodded. "As you say."

"Kiss your brother goodnight, then."

He did, tucked the filthy curls away from the babe's brow, gave him the lightest kiss to avoid disturbing his slumber. "Sweet dreams, Rickon," he whispered.

"Oh, didn't you hear?" Theon said and pulled him up. "They're never really dreams."

Robb frowned. "I've been having some strange ones myself."

"Have you? Tell me about it on the way."

"Just – very lucid, that's all." His eyes drifted again, as if he was trying hard to grasp a memory that was just beyond his reach, and he hadn't yet noticed Theon was leading him up another flight of stairs, away from their own bedchambers. It was a moonless night, dark as sin; the wind blew harshly though the narrow slits in the stone walls. "It's this feeling when you're awake but you're not certain if you truly _are_."

"Too much Arbor gold?" Now that there was no one to supervise or scold him, Robb had taken a few liberties he hadn't allowed himself before. Back to his old habit of chewing his lip, for one, or to a new habit of treating himself to more wine than Lady Stark would have ever approved, had she been in the right mind to think of her firstborn at all. Theon didn't mind; he certainly liked it when Robb finally let the lordly mask fall, and beneath it remerged the laughing, carefree boy he'd once known, if only for a few hours.

"No more than usual," Robb said, then halted his steps. "Theon." He turned back, face solemn. "That's my lord father's bedchamber."

"So?" Theon shrugged. "He's not using it, is he?" He pried a torch off one of the sconces on the wall, and then pushed the heavy oaken door open. He could feel Robb planted in place behind him, his silent hesitation, then his footsteps following him inside that ( _no longer_ ) forbidden bedchamber.

Truth be told, it was nothing impressive. Lord Stark's bedchamber was as austere and plain as the man himself. A large bed, a writing desk, a wardrobe and a grim, large carpet covering most of the cold stone floor. The castle servants took care to clean and air the room even in their lord's absence, but the place still felt dusty, neglected. _Befitting, since lately the entire castle feels this way_. Theon doubted anyone would bother them here, but he bolted the door, just to be safe, and placed the torch beside it. Robb stood next to him, his expression still grave, mouth drawn into a thin line. _He'll soon forget about that. Once I have my way with him, he'll forget about everything. And we'd get away, we really could._

"Take off your breeches," he told Robb.

The boy complied, though his movements were still slow. He placed his sword on the nightstand, unlaced his breeches, pulled them off his legs, and after a slight deliberation, tugged his smallclothes down as well. Theon hadn't told him to, but by now they were both used to the pace of this nocturnal ritual: a quick, hard fuck as the castle drowned in its nightly loneliness, Robb pressed up against the wall or bent over a desk, his urgent pleads, and a release so intense it was almost painful. Then: embraces and soft caresses, lying side by side on the bed, between wine and idle chatter, until they were ready to start anew, this time unhurriedly, gently, tongues fluttering over skin, bodies tangled close together.

But not tonight. Tonight Theon had other plans (and even madder dreams: the bells of Norvos, the elephants of Old Volantis, white-masted ships.)

"Come here," he said, and when Robb did, he took the breeches from his hand, folded them in half, and wrapped them around the boy's brow and eyes, tying the ends in a tight knot at the back of his head. Robb stayed limp and silent, though Theon could see how his cock had started to harden. Blindfolded, well, it was something new. Theon had never done this to him before, liked gazing into his eyes too much ( _when the masks fall, when he's fucked hard, then that calm blue becomes almost searing._ ) He hadn't been sure how Robb would react, but the boy seemed to accept it just fine.

He led him towards the bed, step after step, then pushed down on his shoulder. "On your knees," he said. Robb did as he was told, dropped down to kneel on the grey carpet; his backside rested on his riding boots' heavy heels, and Theon was not sure if it was this vulnerable sight or the boy lord's quiet obedience which tantalised him so.

He turned towards the wardrobe and quickly found what he was looking for. Most of the clothes had been packed, naturally, but some outfits still remained, ones deemed too heavy for the warmer south, and a lighter one which by the looks of it hadn't been washed yet. It sat loosely on his skin; he was almost as tall as his warden, but Lord Stark was a much heavier, wider man. _No matter, Robb doesn't need to see, just needs to let go._ He sat on the bed, legs slightly spread inside that unfamiliar wrapping of another man's wool. Robb knelt motionlessly, as if deep in prayer, the lines of his half-visible face still taut. Theon cupped his cheek gently, and the boy startled.

"Didn't hear you coming," he said.

"You're tired," Theon told him, his thumb brushing the side of his lips. "You should rest." He pulled him closer, laid his head between his knees, his nose almost touching his cock through the foreign wool. Robb sighed, his tired lines slightly loosened. He took a deep breath, then froze again.

"What is it, lad?" Theon asked him, twisted his fingers in his reddish curls.

"Father," Robb whispered.

"Yes. His clothes."

"You can't –" Robb started, that new lordly voice of his, but then he inhaled deeply again. "Gods, I wish he were here."

"Pretend that he is."

For Theon, even the slightest smell reminiscent of his childhood was interwoven with a piercing anxiety. Back home it was better to be ignored, since Lord Greyjoy's attentions usually meant humiliation, or worse, a thrashing. He couldn't quite comprehend how the scent of his lord father's clothes had such a soothing effect on Robb, but soothed him it did. The boy moved his cheek on the wool, his tight mouth slackened, and Theon thought of him as he first saw him at five years old, a loud and cheerful child, clashing wooden swords with his bastard brother, climbing onto his father's knees at the dinner table. Robb respected his father greatly, admired him even, but he'd never, not for once, feared him, and Theon would've been envious if he were capable to even understand that.

And mayhaps Robb was pretending, deceiving himself into thinking he was on his knees, half-nude and blindfolded, with his face buried in his lord father's lap. A jarring thought, no doubt, but if the Starks saw it fit to let Robb play as his brother's mother, then surely Theon could play as his father for one night ( _And any nights to come. I'll be anything he needs, here in Winterfell and anywhere else he'd agree to follow_.)

Robb's breath grew steadier, his face calmer. "Feels like home," he eventually mumbled.

 _Never for me_. _But tonight, we both pretend_. "Give me your hand," he told Robb. He did, ever so compliant, and Theon kissed each finger before he took the middle one into his mouth, gave it such a deep suck that the boy shuddered on his knees. He added another finger and tried to imagine what Robb's eyes looked like under the cover of his breeches, have they yet reached that deep shade of moist blue, that ocean Theon hadn't seen for almost ten years? Lord Stark had never taken him on rides to the seaside, as if afraid the salty winds would needlessly remind Theon of his home. His warden hadn't known the only sea he should've kept hidden was the burning blue of his son's eyes.

When both fingers were well wet, he released them, tousled Robb's curls. "Put them inside you," he told him. Robb twitched, slightly whimpered, but his hand moved down. Obediently, so obediently. A little boy following his father's orders. He could see Robb's hand over his ass, bending between his boots, and felt the exact moment he slipped one of his fingers inside him. His body rocked forward, his blindfolded brow pushed against Theon's cock, now pulsing and so stiff just from the thought of the little Stark slowly fingering himself.

"Both of them, Robb," he told him, and the boy nodded, let out a hiss as his arm, twisted over his back, moved down. His other hand rose from the floor, grasped Theon's knee to better support himself, and that closeness almost pushed Theon much farther than he was willing to go just yet. He unlaced Lord Stark's breeches, pulled his cock out and rubbed it over Robb's lips. The boy moaned, surprised, and spread his mouth to take him in.

"No, not yet," Theon told him. "I want to see you fucked first."

And he couldn't see it all from where he was seated, but it didn't matter, not really; he saw all he needed to by Robb's reddened cheeks, his teeth over his bottom lip, his huffed breath. His head bobbed, grinding harder against Theon's cock, his mouth stroking it each time he swayed forward. Theon imagined how his fingers were buried inside him, curling, sinking deeper, and he couldn't bear to wait any longer.

"Open up," he rasped, "right now." And Robb ( _so fucking obediently_ ) did. He wrapped his mouth over his cock, took him almost halfway in before he gagged, his fingers tightened over Theon's knee; he pulled back, dove in again. "Just like that," Theon muttered. "Good little boy." Robb's hair fell in sweaty, unruly curls over his blindfold, and Theon gathered those messy locks in his hands, used them to pull Robb's head up, then to slide him back down, until the boy coughed, gasped for breath. And if there were tears in his eyes, well, Theon couldn't see it, and if he was pleading for him to slow down, well, Theon couldn't hear it ( _It's all for Robb, that's what he needs. Let go, lose control, just be a boy, my boy_.) And that feeling, sitting on his warden's bed, wearing his clothes, fucking his firstborn's mouth, it was a pleasure he wanted to last forever.

_And we could, truly could. So fucking obedient, wouldn't he go one step further?_

"Robb, Robb." He thrust into his mouth. "It doesn't have to be like this. This castle, your half-dead family, this snow and cold." He gripped his hair harder, drew him down until his lips dragged near the base of his length. "We could get away. Do you hear me? Far away. Where it's sunny and warm and you don't have to worry anymore."

Robb's hand dropped from his knee in that maddened pace set for him, and now he was entirely guided by Theon's hands in his hair. "Understand? They've left you. Why should you care?" And he couldn't see the little Stark's reaction, couldn't see that searing blue, but Robb wriggled his hand to his front to touch himself, and his mouth was so pliant, so soft. "Don't you want to see the Titan of Braavos? To walk the streets of Old Volantis?" His next shove brought Robb's nose against his navel. "We could sail to the Jade Sea. Just like my uncle. Don't you want to? Robb?" And he knew how desperate he sounded, those pleas, those words, but they could, truly could, just walk up and leave this drearily cold castle, up on their horses and never, ever look back… _No Starks, no Greyjoys, just us…_

He held Robb firmly pressed against his stomach, yanked hard on his hair as he spent himself inside his mouth. "We could," he told him, voice hoarse. "Even tonight." The boy squirmed, nearly choked, but his hand was still a tight circle around his own cock. Theon felt the quiver of Robb's moan as hot seed filled his mouth, as he convulsed around his own fingers deep in his ass, as his cheeks flushed brighter and his body sagged down.

"Don't you want to?" Theon whispered. Robb's head slumped on his knees, and he had to look in his eyes, to finally see that blue, to make sure that this wasn't just another stolen, sweet moment in an endless winter. He tugged on the blindfold, untied the knot in one pull, and the breeches fell down to the carpet. Robb's eyes were wet where his tears hadn't soaked into fabric, and the blue – no, not that burning storm of late, not that tranquil sea of a simpler time – it was an ice sheet, grave and solemn, enough to make Theon's blood freeze. _Not mine, never was. His father's son. Family, honour. And duty_. The boy was silent as they stared at each other for a long moment.

"Gods," Robb finally mumbled. "You're serious."

"What if I am?" Theon asked. He pulled Robb up into his arms, cradled him in his lap, still wiped his tears as they lay back on the mattress between the dusty furs.

But the boy lord just shook his head. "Let us never speak of it again," he said.

And Theon had exposed too much, couldn't deny his carelessly suppliant words, couldn't jape his way out of this. Nor could he dream of white-masted ships and distant free cities when this cage ( _these frozen walls, this empty castle, Lady Stark's madness, little Rickon's wails_ ) was all that they would ever have. Robb would allow himself to forget for a night, would drown his abandonment in sweet words and rough fucks, but he couldn't leave, would never leave. And when their lips touched, lying embraced in Lord Stark's deserted bed, his kiss was shallow, almost hesitant. Because he now knew duty meant naught to Theon. Because he knew Theon would gladly throw all honour into the wind.

Because Robb was starting to suspect who Theon really was.


	3. L'Eclisse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Theon would rather take freedom than smoking arenas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major cheers to [SharpestKnife](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestKnife/pseuds/SharpestKnife) for a once again wonderful beta, and for bearing so bravely with the darkness and total delusion of this all. Love you! <3

Robb barely laughed anymore.

He sat cross-legged by the bonfire, his thick fur cloak wound tightly about him. His eyes darkened, as if the world reflected was as black as the night skies above. Theon poured them more wine, making certain to add those drops into Robb's cup while the boy averted his gaze to the burning logs. Deep in the woods, nearly half a day's ride from Winterfell, they were hidden from any prying eyes, and so he let his hand glide around Robb's back as he handed him his drink.

"Tomorrow," Robb said. "Overmorrow the latest. They'll all come."

"Do you worry?" Theon asked.

Robb shrugged. It'd been a good hunting day, their bounty had been plentiful, but now his face grew troubled yet again. "I'd be a fool not to." He swished the wine to and fro inside his cup. _Come on, lad, drink._ "These are grown men, lords of the North. Would they even listen to me?"

Theon could not blame him for his doubts. Calling the banners was easy, _too easy_. They'd leant by the solar window and watched the ravens fly over the ramparts of Winterfell, bearing Robb's commands and the horns of war to the four corners of the North. It was a beautiful sight, tinted even more striking by the colours of sunset, and Theon touched his lips to Robb's, tasting his fear, his heart surging for that brave boy who'd become a lord almost overnight.

He'd thought the prospect of war would thrill him. After all, he loved nothing better than a daring conquest and he'd been prodding Robb for retribution ever since the Kingslayer raised his sword against Lord Stark. But war, he'd soon discovered, was quite a different affair than cajoling a timid maiden to submit to his will. As the lords started trickling into the castle, rugged men and women thirsty for Lannister blood, he'd found nothing but dread inside him. This was real, all too real: the bannermen's arguments, their loud shouts, Robb's hard glares as his fingers tensed through his direwolf's fur, and how he'd drifted further away each day. Theon hadn't seen him happy, not once, since little Bran rode his horse for the first time after his fall ( _Then: the wildlings, my lucky arrow_. He had tucked the memory deep away. _Because gods, I deserved some gratitude. Or at least a smile_.)

"Aye, they'll listen," Theon said softly. "They are sworn to protect your house and your father. You'll do fine. You're a Stark."

Robb frowned. "I'm a fifteen-year-old Stark." He dipped his finger into the wine, put it to his mouth and sucked on it slowly, his lips closing over skin and liquor. The gesture was hardly teasing; it was more like a child slyly tasting from his father's cup at dinner, and yet Theon found himself mesmerised by that tight red mouth, those lips chapped by biting cold and absentminded teeth. _Drink, Robb, drink already_.

"You're a man grown," he said. "How old was your own father when he rose against the Targaryens? And King Robert? Not much older than you." They were still young at the Greyjoy Rebellion, when they'd squashed Theon's house to ashes. And now the King was dead, Lord Stark in chains, but it was better not to mention all that. Robb had enough to worry about as it was. He had even been disinclined to go on this hunting ride; he kept spewing words of his duties, his bannermen, stock lists. And when he finally conceded that the castle could endure without him for one night, he dared to suggest that they would ride through the villages, check their defences (Theon cut his words short, almost too harshly. _No_ , he said. _Just us. No villages, no defence lines, no fucking inventories. For one night, you'll be just mine_.)

"I suppose," Robb sighed and finally raised the cup to his lips, took a hefty sip. Theon observed him silently as he drained the wine. He'd put just enough milk of the poppy, he was sure. Maester Luwin had applied the same dosage for Lady Stark, back in the days of her delirium. Theon watched him do it a hundred times, stood at the doorsill as Robb fed the white concoction to his lady mother; her eyes would then reluctantly flutter into a dreamless sleep, away from her broken son. Robb was by now taller than his mother, far wider, but Theon dared not increase the dose. _It'll be fine_ , he told himself. _All I need is an hour or two, nothing more_.

The effect was immediate, almost alarmingly so. Robb yawned, laid his head on Theon's shoulder. The cup fell from his hand, some leftover wine spilling on the cold earth. "I'm so tired," he said.

"It's been a long day," Theon said, his heart beating faster as the moment approached. "Let us go inside." He draped his arm around Robb, pulled him up and led him into the small, makeshift tent they'd built when they'd made their camp. The boy dropped, heavy as stone, over the bedroll and the furs.

"Want to –" he mumbled. "With me, first?" And usually Theon wouldn't have passed on an opportunity to take his pleasure with Robb, to anchor him firmly under the cover of stars and plunge into him. But tonight was different. _And after tonight, everything will be different._

"Later," he said, knelt by the tent's entrance. "Just rest for now."

Robb gave him a smile then, a wan little smile. "Theon, I don't –" he whispered. "Don't want to fall asleep alone."

Theon nodded, crawled behind Robb and tucked the drowsy boy under the furs, against his chest. He wrapped his arms tenderly around him, touched his lips to his cheek. "You never will," he promised him quietly. "Not as long as I'm here."

But Robb was already out cold.

That must have been the most peaceful Theon had seen him for too long a time. His face calmed, cleared of trouble, with eyes shut tight and breath steady. Theon would've liked to stay and watch him, wanted to slowly stroke his hair, to scatter kisses on his neck, but he had much to organise and precious little time to do so. With a sigh he released Robb from his embrace and went back into the cold night.

He'd decided to leave the camp mostly as it was, to let the fire burn itself out, the tent fall under the harsh wind. It was better; their pursuers would imagine a wildling attack, perhaps wild beasts. Theon felt pride swelling inside of him as he readied the horses, secured the travelling supplies to the back of Robb's palfrey, then tied its leash to his own brown gelding. It was truly a flawless plan. Robb would have to be subdued at first, there was no way around it, but that's where the milk of the poppy would come in handy, and while the boy might ( _surely will_ ) be angry, he would soon see the sense of Theon's plan. Just like that lucky arrow. _I was right, I was. I saved the whelp's life. I deserved a smile. He'll come around to see that, he must._

He was somewhat concerned about the direwolf, who had skulked off to his hunt earlier. Drugging him was out of question, the beast was too heavy to be carried. It didn’t really matter, Theon finally decided. Grey Wind was fiercely protective of Robb, but always docile towards Theon ( _Quite like his master_.) As long as Theon wasn't aggressive – and he had no intention of hurting the boy, never – he expected the direwolf would cause no trouble. _The beast would follow us, that's all. It'll be fine._ When all was ready, he checked again on Robb. It was time to tie him up and mount him on the horse, but everything had been going so smoothly, Theon figured he was entitled to a rest before the entire ordeal began. He knew he was doing what must be done, but he craved a few soft kisses while Robb still bore him no ill thoughts.

"Robb?" he whispered, lay on the furs beside the boy, so close that Robb's tousled curls tickled his skin. He sniffed the wine on his breath when he touched his lips. This kiss felt quite different than kissing him in his sleep; Robb was entirely irresponsive, as lifeless as a ragdoll, so heavily he was drugged. He was warm enough, however. Theon pressed their bodies together, and when his cock brushed on the boy's leg, it stiffened at once.

 _Well, he did offer, didn't he?_ He shouldn't feel guilty for it, Robb had always let him do as he pleased, awake or asleep. At times he'd leave his bedchamber's door unbarred for Theon to take him by surprise in the dark of night. Surely sedated wasn't much worse than asleep, and he'd be so soft, so loose, the thought itself was stirring. _Later, in Braavos or Lys, I can confess to him about it. And we'll laugh, how we'll laugh_.

"Truly helpless to stop me now, aren't you?" Theon mumbled in his ear. He kissed him again, his palm cupping his chin, his other hand slithering under his tunic, through ties and fabric, to cling to his feverishly warm skin. "I'm going to touch you." He unlaced the little Stark's breeches in one hard pull, then his own. "Wherever I wish." He planned to turn him around, but the heat of his flaccid body was so intoxicating against his cock. "Hells, I'll fuck you, just like this. You wouldn't even notice." His hand slipped down to his waist, clutched it as he rubbed faster against him. "Or maybe I'll just spend my seed all over you," he panted, fingers tightening around Robb's jaw. "Make you taste it. You'd like that, wouldn't you? Milk of the poppy, ah, Robb –?"

But then his words shattered in his mouth, he halted on spot. Robb's eyes were opened, staring at him, a murky blue of alarm and distress, and this was not supposed to happen.

Robb heaved, broke into a fit of coughs, then shakily crawled out of the tent. By the time Theon regained control of his senses, the boy was already halfway outside. He gagged, fell down on the cold earth. "Theon –" he uttered a choked sob. "I feel sick, I feel sick."

Theon put his arms back on Robb's waist to steady him. "What's the matter?" he asked. _Mayhaps I've put too much, gods help me, I've poisoned him_.

"Feel sick –" And Robb heaved again, retched on the frozen ground between coughs and sniffs. His limbs trembled madly, his unlaced breeches slid down to his knees, and he dropped on his elbows, vomited again. His bile was thin, pale red in colour, with bits of undigested food, but it smelled of poppies. _He's poisoned, he's dying, he'll die on me, it's on me_. Theon nearly lost himself to a sweltering panic clouding his thoughts. He had every little detail planned, everything but this; his hands felt weak and useless holding on to Robb while his vomit ran down his chin. _Poisoned. Dying_. A flash of memory resurfaced: Maester Luwin, his wrinkled old face, tedious lessons in his tower. Theon hadn't been listening, been wistfully watching the archery range below. What was it the Maester had said? _Poison, it spreads faster when you move._

"Lie down," Theon said.

"Sick – so sick." The boy's cheeks were wet with tears, his coughs wouldn't stop.

"Hush now." Theon rolled him flat on his back, pinned him down with firm hands on his shoulders. "Don't move. It's important that you don't move. Understand?"

Robb's eyes were hazy, wide with incomprehension. "What – what's wrong with me?" he whispered.

"Nothing. Nothing's wrong." Theon said. _Gods, please, don't make this a lie_. He moved to straddle the boy, careful not to apply too much pressure, just enough to ease the spasms of his legs. "You shouldn't move, that's all. I've put milk of the poppy in your wine."

"You – what?"

"Milk of the poppy," he repeated, but the boy still blearily gaped at him, his body jittering under his weight. "Drugged you. Put you to sleep. When you feel better, we shall leave."

"You. Are you," Robb mumbled. "Taking me a hostage. To Pyke?"

"What? No." Theon found himself perplexed. Throughout his plans, even the maddest of them (Qarth, the city of wizards, and the jungles of Sothoryos), he had never considered whisking the little Stark as spoils of war back to the Iron Islands. It hurt that Robb would even think that of him. _Doesn't he know I'm doing it all for him? Never for me, never for my family. Just him_. "We'll get away, both of us. Far across the sea."

"You can't –" Robb coughed yet again, his chest jerking so violently Theon almost tipped over. "Can't do that."

"I can," he said, lifted the boy's head a bit upwards to help his breathing. "And I will." He kept gently caressing Robb's curls until the coughing fit faded and the body underneath him calmed. "It'll all be fine, trust me."

"Please," Robb said quietly. "Let us go back to Winterfell. I won't punish you, I swear."

" _Punish_ me?" Theon asked, incredulous. "You're in no position to even do that." While it was well within his rights as the lord of Winterfell, Robb had never dared to, not even after that lucky arrow, when he'd threatened to use him as a practice target for little Bran. At least Robb was able to form a complete sentence; his breath wasn't as shallow, the colour returned to his cheeks. _He's fine, won't die. I'll save him just like I've saved his brother_. "You'll see," he said. "It's for the best."

"Stop this now and I'll forgive you, I promise," Robb kept on. "We'll forget all about this madness. Theon, please."

"Enough, lad, don't tire yourself," Theon told him. "We've got a long ride ahead of us." He reached for the backpack by the tent, felt Robb's dazed eyes following his movements. He pulled out the rope he'd left inside it. He'd planned to do that while Robb was still sedated, didn't like the thought of tying up the boy while he was begging and pleading, but he had to, it needed to be done, it was important that he incapacitated him while he was yet weak. Only when he looked back, he felt his stomach churn; Robb was utterly still, eyes scrunched as if in deep concentration, but his limbs were slack and motionless. Theon crouched closer, but couldn't feel his breath, couldn't sense the beat of his heart.

"Robb?" He shook the limp body once, then again, harder. "What happened?" His mind was again flooded with overwhelming panic; he thought of slapping him, splashing him with water, anything just to wake him up. "Answer me, gods, Robb –"

The beast took him by surprise.

Grey Wind pounced on him from the shadows of the thick woods, rammed onto his back and threw him off Robb. Theon's back thumped on the frozen earth, the air knocked out of him, his brow crashing on a jagged rock in his fall, and for a moment he saw nothing but darkness. Then, slowly, the world began to clear: black skies, night stars above, the giant direwolf unbearably heavy on his chest, and his sharp fangs, the stench of his mouth just inches away.

From the corner of his eyes, he could see Robb slowly rising up to sit, wiping his face with his shaking hands. His gaze wandered down; he dazedly passed his fingers over his body, most likely only now realising that he was half undressed. He panted heavily, eyes aghast, then reached to stroke the beast's fur. "Good boy," he mumbled. "You came." And Theon had never felt so helpless, pinned down by that direwolf's huge paws, watching Robb as he gradually collected himself, wordlessly awaiting the boy lord's judgement.

It seemed to last a lifetime: that silence, the beast's muzzle at his face, and the crushing weight of failure. When Robb finally spoke, his voice was flat. "You're an idiot, Greyjoy," he said. "Milk of the poppy should never be mixed with liquor. Didn't you know that?" Without waiting for an answer, he continued: "You drugged me. Planned to abduct me. Gods, tried to fuck me while I was passed out. Just dare to deny it."

Theon shook his head. He was past denying, and his resentment and despair choked him even worse than the direwolf's weight. "You're hardly a maiden, Stark," he spat.

Robb chewed on his lips, hard; his eyes narrowed, his composed face now burned with fury. "Aren't I?" he quietly asked. "Grey Wind, release him." The beast left his chest and moved to crouch beside his master, and Theon could at last find his breath, felt sudden relief wash over him. _Is that all? Does he finally get it? Does he understand it's all for him?_ But then Robb added: "If he moves, tear his throat out."

Grey Wind yowled softly, putting away any doubt of his understanding of the command, and Theon recalled with a shudder those wildlings, arms chewed off their bodies, the horror on their faces, and how they'd screamed. And so when Robb came to him, knelt between his legs, ordered him – "breeches down, Greyjoy, spread your legs" – he obeyed without protest.

Theon had never let Robb do that, hadn't even considered it; he was the Ironborn, meant to seize the whimpering little Stark. Part of the intense pleasure of it all was asserting his possession over the boy lord of Winterfell. But now it was Robb who bent over him, his furious face so close. It was Robb who placed one hand on his shoulder, his eyes fiery with rage, and put the other by Theon's mouth.

"Spit," he commanded.

Theon tried to jerk away, but the beast stirred and laid his paw over his chest, holding him down. _I won't beg_. He spat into Robb's palm. _An Ironborn doesn't beg._ Robb reached between his own legs, hand still shaky, and rubbed the spittle on his cock, stroking his length until it began to harden. _Let him do that, but I won't beg_. Then Robb's hand was on his ass, spreading him in one harsh movement; his cock, slick with saliva, poked against his entrance.

"That'll hurt," Robb said.

At the first shove, Theon kept his resolution. He didn't beg, but he almost screamed. He coiled his hands into tight fists, nails digging into flesh. The pain was nearly blinding. He let out another stifled moan as he felt Robb slowly pushing into him.

"Yes, hurts, doesn't it?" Robb panted, his hand burrowing into Theon's shoulder. "You've never told me how badly it'd hurt. I was just a child, you sick fuck."

"You liked that well enough," Theon hissed through gritted teeth. "Little whore."

Robb pushed harder. "Who's the whore now, Greyjoy?"

"At least I'm not a deviant," Theon said, struggling to lace as much poison in his words, so he wouldn't feel that agony tearing him apart with each thrust. "I've been with girls. Many girls. You –" He grunted with pain as the head of Robb's cock finally breached in. "You've only ever been with me. _That's_ sick." Robb pulled out, almost completely, thrust inside again, and Theon's eyes gushed with tears. "You pretended to suck your own father, Stark. And how you enjoyed that. Did your daddy –"

"Don't dare to talk of my lord father." Both boy and wolf growled, and Robb slammed into him forcefully, buried himself whole inside of him in one hard shove. "Never."

And Theon cried earnestly now, he must have. He lurched and writhed; pine needles and rocks cut into his back, and the beast's paw bore heavier on him. "Robb –" he mumbled, turned his face to the cold earth. _I won't beg_.

"Look at me," Robb ordered, his left hand settled on Theon's cheek, tilted it towards him, fingers wiping the tears off his eyes. "What was your clever plan, Greyjoy? Tell me."

"Take you away."

"Where?"

"The seaside, a harbour. Sail off to Braavos at first." His words were broken, interwoven with pitiful moans. "Be free. Never look back. Robb –" _No, no pleading_.

"How did you intend to pay for passage?" Robb's moves grew faster, a terrible, furious pace. "With what coin?"

"Our jewellery, clothes, horses. Whatever it took."

"And you thought I'd just agree?"

"Milk of the poppy," Theon grunted. "Keep you sedated, tied under your cloak. I'd have made you happy, Robb. You're just a boy. You said so, a fifteen-year-old Stark. You should not be waging war, you should be happy –"

"What about my father?" Robb snarled, the beast right along with him. "My family?"

"Fuck your father, fuck your family." Theon looked him in the eye. And somehow Robb seemed more handsome than ever like this, with his face flushed with effort, slamming roughly into him, his ruffled hair glowing red by the bonfire's dying embers, moonbeams shadowing the searing blue of his eyes. Theon sent his hand to stroke Robb's cheek. "It was all for you," he said.

"Don't touch me." Robb edged even deeper, but his voice broke, his lips wobbled. "Don't you dare touch me."

Theon did nonetheless, and now they were both holding each other's faces. "All for you," he repeated.

"For me? You've truly lost your mind," Robb hissed. "I'm going to fuck you until you scream, Greyjoy, until they hear you in Winterfell. I'll spend myself all over you. So you remember your place. I _am_ your lord." Grey Wind howled along with Robb's thrusts, rapidly growing frantic as his eyes lost focus, as he drew nearer. "Say it," he commanded. "Say it!"

"My lord," Theon whispered back.

"I am. Never forget that." Robb pulled out, his moan hoarse and desperate; his seed spurted pearly white all over Theon's skin and tunic, a last gush right on his mouth and on Robb's fingers clamping his chin. For a long moment they stayed like this, frozen in place, muscles taut and eyes locked on one another, and then Robb collapsed, buckled to Theon's chest, began to cough.

Grey Wind scuttled to his master and licked his face, slowly and gently, while Theon still lay dazed, pulled on the sleeve of his tunic to clean his face of tears and semen. He could feel every jerk of Robb's body, every pained sob he was trying to swallow.

"Robb," he said, laid his hand on the boy's curls.

Robb didn't push him away; he lifted his head, his skin gleaming wet with his direwolf's drool and hot tears. "Why, Theon? Why?" he wept. "You were the only good thing I had."

"I wanted to save you," Theon quietly said.

"You can't," Robb mumbled. "Don't you see? No one can."

At the break of dawn they dismantled their camp, mounted their horses and set for the long journey to Winterfell. They chattered, raced each other down the rolling green hills, and neither of them mentioned what'd happened under the blanket of night stars. Back at the castle, more lords would await them, with revenge smouldering in their wild eyes. And Robb would do fine. He was a Stark, after all. At midday they stopped at a stream to strip and wash their dirtied clothes, and Theon wrestled Robb down by the tall grass, tickled him until he laughed. The boy let him slide his mouth between his legs and suck him until he spilled into his mouth, but when Theon rose to kiss him, Robb turned his head aside. Because he now knew Theon was as bad as any Ironborn, a true reaver. Because he knew Theon would seize what he wanted regardless of the consequences.

Because now Robb knew exactly who Theon was. 


End file.
